Every Time
by Venus Smurf
Summary: The first time they met, he forgot her. The second time, he took her picture. The third, he decided she was bipolar.


**A.N.: **See? This is proof that I'm not dead! Yay!

Or not yay, depending on how irritated you are over my going AWOL for so long.

Seriously, though, it's not that I've lost interest in writing, just that I've been so busy that I haven't had time. I mean, this stupid one-shot alone took me _months_, and that's just pathetic. I'm glad it's done, though, because now I can finally get back to work on my other stories.

Anyway, I wrote this because a surprising number of you had read one of my other pieces, "Her Fault," and wanted to know how the Mina and Mal of that fic got together in the first place. This doesn't have to go with HF, and the other piece is pretty danged depressing anyway—though again, it _will_ have a happy ending once I get around to finishing it—but whatever.

* * *

"Every Time"

* * *

He met her on an airplane. He'd gone to England to visit an old friend, and she was his seatmate on the flight back to Japan. He didn't think much of her at first—she was a pretty thing, but too young to be of any real interest, and she didn't catch his attention for any other reason. She barely spoke a word the entire flight, choosing instead to spend the long hours gazing sightlessly out the window at the clouds. As far as he could tell, she didn't even know he was there.

To be fair, Malachite wasn't that much more aware of her than she was of him. In fact, he probably wouldn't have remembered her at all if it hadn't been for that blankness in her eyes. She was hardly more than a child, and yet she spent the entire nine hour flight brooding. Not even he, taciturn as he admittedly was, could have gone so long without speaking. What kind of problems could a girl barely in her teens have, to make her so silent and so obviously unhappy?

He didn't ask. Didn't really even consider asking, because involving himself in the lives of strangers just wasn't something he ever did. He had enough problems of his own.

She was just as much of an enigma when the flight landed as she had been nine hours before. He didn't know her name, her reason for going to Japan, the cause of her misery. He didn't know anything about her, and he would soon forget what she even looked like. She'd spent most of their time together staring out the window, unconsciously keeping her face averted, and Mal would only remember the look in her eyes and the fact that she'd had an almost absurd amount of blonde hair.

When the time came to leave, he didn't even glance at her before he shouldered his bag and walked out of her life.

He met her again just over a year later. He'd taken up photography by then, and while he wasn't anything more than a rather talented amateur, he'd still begun spending his free time in parks and public places, watching the people, taking pictures. He hadn't yet found anything that really inspired him or made his time worthwhile, but he continued to haunt the parks, searching for something that would.

It was on one such search that he ran into her for the second time. She was sitting on a wooden bench in an isolated corner of the park, her feet tucked beneath her and her hands folded almost primly in her lap. She was gazing rather blankly out into the trees, and she was so motionless that he probably wouldn't have noticed her at all had it not been for that mass of hair. It sparked a vague memory, made him pause and stare.

The blonde strands were even longer now, but while the hair had initially captured his attention, something else held it. Perhaps it was the misery still in her face, so heavy in her expression that he wondered how she could keep herself upright under the weight of it. And what hurt was she carrying inside, that her pain could last so long, anyway? He'd thought children were adaptable, easily healed, but if anything, her unhappiness seemed to have grown in that year since he'd seen her last.

Then again, she wasn't really a child. She couldn't have been older than fifteen or sixteen, and the uniform she wore certainly belonged to a schoolgirl, but the grief twisting those lovely features didn't. Whoever she was and whatever her problems might be, they'd obviously aged her in ways that time alone couldn't, and he wouldn't have been human if he hadn't wondered about the unnaturally quiet girl he'd once sat beside on an airplane.

It still didn't occur to him to ask about her troubles. She was nothing more than a slightly familiar stranger, however curious she made him, and he only lifted his camera and snapped off a quick picture before walking away entirely.

Malachite didn't quite forget about her after this second meeting, but she wasn't on his mind, either. He simply developed his film, and then tossed her picture into a drawer with several dozen others. Months would go by before he thought of it again, even in passing, and by then his memory of her was almost as hazy as their meeting on the plane.

The next time he saw her, she'd become a different person.

Another two years had gone by, and he certainly wasn't thinking of her as he maneuvered through the streets of Tokyo, camera still in hand. He'd progressed from amateur to professional by then, and moments before he met her for the third time, his cell died in the middle of a conversation with an important client. He cursed and ducked into a nearby arcade in search of another phone, and it wasn't until after he'd finished his call and was on his way out that he noticed the pale blonde in the corner booth.

Recognition came quickly this time, and Malachite almost instinctively stopped to look at her. She'd gotten older again, but the change in her still went beyond the purely physical, and he was just as surprised by the difference as he had been two years before.

The last time he'd seen her, he'd thought that the pretty child had become an equally pretty girl, and that by the time she was a woman, she'd cross the line into beautiful. He just hadn't thought it would happen so quickly, or that when she did fulfill the promise he'd seen in her, _beautiful _wouldn't even begin to describe her.

Simply put, she'd become breathtaking. Her face had thinned and lost the final traces of adolescence, and somehow her features had become even more refined and striking. The sad wisdom that had made her gaze so memorable had also become a stronger part of her expression, and while the sorrow seemed muted in comparison to what it had been that day on the airplane or even that day at the park, he thought that she'd finally grown into her eyes.

He could admit that she intrigued him. He didn't know what to make of her—of her obvious grief, of her strange maturity, even of the fact that he'd recognized her after two full years apart. She was a puzzle, and for just a moment, he wanted nothing more than to understand her. What had she gone through, to make her this way?

The moment didn't last. Before Malachite could acknowledge that he'd stopped in the middle of an arcade and was gaping at some strange girl, a new shadow crossed her face, and she stiffened. Her expression changed, the sorrow slipped from her features, and she became someone else.

The sudden differences in her were…startling, for all that they were so subtle, for all that another man might not have noticed them in the first place. Her posture had shifted, her shoulders lifting as though the weight of her grief was suddenly absent, or at least as though she'd abruptly gained the strength to carry it anyway. Her features had smoothed out, and the misery might never have been there at all. She was even beginning to smile, and while the smile was faint, it was also warm, unhindered by the pain he'd always seen in her. She looked…not happy, but at least content, and he could only wonder how much the lie had cost her.

For lie it must be, though he was more than a little unnerved by how just how complete the transformation was. Too much had drained away with her pain—the wisdom, the years he still didn't think she'd actually lived. She looked younger, now, less intelligent, less mature. Her eyes were brighter, but they were also slightly vapid and far too innocent, and he almost decided that the lie was too convincing to actually _be _a lie.

Then again, maybe she was simply bipolar?

Malachite dismissed the idea almost instantly, because whatever else this girl might be, he didn't think she was mentally or emotionally unstable. Her expression had changed too quickly to be anything but deliberate, and he could only wonder at the practiced ease with which she'd dropped this joyful mask over her face. How often did she have to hide so much of herself, and why did she hide at all?

The girl suddenly stood, enough grace in her movements to startle him again, but it only served to bring Malachite back to himself. He blinked, visibly shook himself and tore his eyes from her. It was far harder than it should have been.

He didn't look at her again as he began making his way from the arcade, though he was still enough aware of her to know that she'd slid from her booth and was practically bouncing towards the group of young women just entering the building. She threw herself at them, began chattering in a lovely if overly excited voice, and though she couldn't have known he'd been watching her, he chose to make his escape while she was still distracted by her friends.

He wasn't able to forget her this time. The days passed, and then the weeks, and he became…concerned when he couldn't quite get her face out of his mind. He thought of her a little too often, thought of her pain and the mask she'd used to hide it, of the lie she'd allowed herself to become. He even dreamt of her once or twice, and while the dreams were harmless enough—one involved a talking cat, of all things—he shouldn't have been dreaming of her at all.

Malachite hadn't thought he would see her again, but of course he did. One of his clients—ironically, the one he'd phoned from that arcade—had booked some Hindu temple for a modeling shoot, and a month later, Malachite found himself climbing the seemingly endless steps leading to the Cherry Hill Shrine. He'd gone alone that first day, wanting to scout the grounds without the distractions of other people, and his pride thanked him for it long before he'd climbed even half of the stairs. He was breathing a little too heavily by the time he reached the top, though it didn't matter, because the second he stepped onto the actual grounds, he nearly stopped breathing anyway.

She was standing a short distance from the stairs, her slender, rather tiny form swathed in the red and white robes of a priestess. A second, dark-haired priestess was standing beside her, and while both were holding long brooms, neither of them was actually working. Instead, the dark-haired one was scowling at the blonde, her free hand gesturing wildly as she delivered what was probably a lecture—a lecture to which her companion was very obviously _not _listening. The blonde was instead staring off into nothing, a pensive look on her face, and he couldn't quite decide if she was smiling or frowning.

They didn't seem to have noticed his arrival, and while he was oddly grateful for that, he checked his impulse to continue staring at them—at _her. _He still hadn't found a reason to justify his reaction at the arcade, and he wasn't about to stand around and gape at her a second time. Perverted stalker he was not, whatever this growing obsession with her might be.

Malachite took a few careful steps forward, cleared his throat rather loudly. The two women immediately spun, the blonde a little more slowly than her black-haired companion, and he tried to remember if she'd always been this pale.

The girl with the black hair and strangely fierce eyes didn't exactly look pleased to see him. As startled as she'd initially been by his presence, she was glaring at him now. "Can I help you?"

Her voice was cold enough to make him feel like the intruder he technically was, and even if he wasn't quite as intimidated as she probably wanted him to be, he still lifted his camera in wordless explanation. "I'm Malachite Sogabe," he informed her when she continued glaring anyway, his voice as polite as he could make it. It was an effort to keep his eyes on her rather than on the blonde. "I'm the photographer for—"

She didn't let him finish. "Yes, fine. Just stay out of the temple, all right?"

Mal blinked, startled by the venom in her voice, but he only nodded and then reluctantly moved away.

The grounds weren't large, but while he wouldn't quite admit he was looking, he didn't see the blonde again until the sun had set and he'd decided to leave the rest of his work for another day. He slung his camera back over his shoulder, tried not to berate himself for wasting his time thinking more of _her _than his task, tried to convince himself that it wouldn't change anything if he never found her again.

She was standing at the top of those endless stairs, her slender body all but hidden in the shadows as he approached. She'd been gazing into space, but her eyes snapped to his long before she could have heard his steps, and he suddenly wondered if she'd been waiting for him.

She was no longer wearing her priestess' robes. Some time during the day, she'd changed into a pair of worn, rather tight jeans and an equally tight shirt. He managed to keep his eyes from lingering on the curves they showed, though her face was even more mesmerizing anyway.

Her smile was stunning, for all that it was also hesitant. "There you are," she said, confirming the ridiculous suspicion—and even more ridiculous hope—that had begun to form within him. "I was starting to think you'd already left."

He didn't smile back. Couldn't, not when simply remembering to breathe was suddenly a struggle. _Too young_, he thought, trying not to look for the grief that should have been in her eyes and wasn't.

She didn't seem bothered by his lack of response, though she must have seen the confusion in his silver eyes, because she suddenly shrugged. "I wanted to apologize for my friend," she abruptly told him, and he thought she sounded nervous. "Raye isn't usually that rude."

She didn't try to explain further, but he just nodded. His thoughts that day hadn't been occupied by her friend, after all, and he really couldn't have cared less that the black-haired girl had been so abrasive.

The nod must have been enough for the mystery girl, because she grinned again. "I'm Mina Aino," she suddenly informed him, and he refused to acknowledge how relieved he was to finally know her name.

"Malachite Sogabe." He stared at her, noting that she didn't look as vapid as she had at the arcade. The intelligence was back in her eyes, though the sorrow was still hidden.

Neither of them seemed to know what to say, and silence fell. It wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy, and Malachite abruptly realized he wasn't blinking. He tore his eyes from her and glanced briefly back at the shrine. "You're a priestess?"

She laughed, and the sound was beautiful enough to make his chest hurt. "Hardly. I just help out now and then, when Raye needs it."

_Raye must be the angry one. _"I see."

Something in him desperately wanted to prolong this conversation, but he already knew he would dream of her that night, and he didn't want to make things harder on himself. _Too young_, he thought again.

And so he simply nodded once more, bid her a quiet farewell and slipped away before he could think too much of how wistful her smile had suddenly become or what that might mean.

He _did_ dream of her that night, and with her face still in his mind as he returned to the temple the next day, he was almost expecting to find her exactly where he'd left her the night before, watching him from the top of the stairs. She wasn't. He didn't see her at all that day, or the next, or the next. She'd vanished again, and Malachite didn't even try to tell himself it didn't matter.

Another week passed—another week of nights and days filled with thoughts of a girl with too many faces and not enough years, and Mal could no longer deny the intensity of his attraction to her. He would have given a little too much just to speak with her again, though the ten years or so between them was still too great an obstacle, and he never tried to fool himself into thinking he had a chance with her.

The day of the shoot arrived, and Malachite was more than a little irritated with himself when he still had to force his thoughts to his job and away from Mina. His irritation shortened his expression and his voice, and more than one member of his crew was cringing away from him long before the models even arrived.

The frustration only increased as the first of the models came to stand before him. She was a lovely woman—the classic Japanese beauty, with dark hair and an alluring slant to her equally dark eyes—but he soon found that everything about her repelled him. Her eyes were _too _dark, her smile too professionally haughty, and no matter what pose she adopted, she looked fake.

Malachite somehow managed to hide his dissatisfaction and get the shots he needed, but the situation didn't improve after the Japanese model had been replaced by a redhead, or even after a brunette had taken the redhead's place. No matter how lovely the women should have seemed, Malachite continued to see only how affected and artificial they were.

The blondes were even worse. Their hair was too light, too short no matter how long it actually was, and their eyes were never the right shade. He could look into their faces and understand exactly how their minds worked with just one glance, and that only served to frustrate him even more. Where was the mystery? The appeal? And why did even the most beautiful of them seem completely unnatural to him?

The hours passed, and Malachite stopped trying to hide his frown and simply concentrated on getting through the day. This, too, was harder than it should have been, and while he managed to stay somewhat professional, he wasn't the only one waiting for the day to end.

"This is the last one," his newly hired assistant eventually announced, undisguised relief in his voice as he led yet another model away.

Malachite didn't even bother to look up at the new girl as she slipped past him and then took her place in front of the camera. He only nodded, his eyes fastened to his equipment and the adjustments he was making to his lens. He had little desire to deal with another woman possessing the wrong face, though he was finally starting to realize that the models weren't to blame.

_She's too young_, he tried to tell himself yet again, but the wanting had already worn him down, and he couldn't quite make that matter as it should.

"Smile," he muttered in the general direction of the model, no warmth at all in his voice. It wasn't exactly a request, though it was too apathetic to be an order, and he was surprised when, rather than being offended, the girl only laughed in reply.

Her reaction alone would have been enough to make him glance at her, but the laughter had been too familiar, and every muscle in his body froze instead. He tensed, his head still down, his eyes widening with shock and relief and too many other emotions even as his fingers clenched a little too tightly around the camera.

_It can't be. _

His heart was in his throat as he forced himself to look up.

Mina was smiling at him from her position before the camera, genuine amusement bright in her expression. "Are you always this friendly?" she teased. "You're starting to remind me of Raye, and you know that can't possibly be a good thing."

He couldn't find the presence of mind to make a reply, though in some dim part of himself, he knew his reaction to her was far too extreme. He'd only met this girl a handful of times, had barely even spoken to her, and yet…

…and yet…

What was she_ doing_ to him?

She seemed to be waiting, her smile becoming a little less sure as he only continued to stare at her. "Are you okay, Mal?"

The nickname was thoughtlessly spoken, and though something tightened in his chest at the familiarity, he didn't let himself dwell on it. "You're a model?" he asked instead, then cursed himself for the surprise in his own voice. He _wasn't _surprised by her choice of career—she was certainly more than beautiful enough for this—just by the irony of it.

Mina simply laughed again, not offended or at least not letting him see it if she was. "Only when I'm bored or short on cash," she admitted. "It's easy work, and it pays well."

He wanted to ask her what she did when she wasn't a priestess or a model, wanted to ask her how old she really was, why she'd come to Japan in the first place. He wanted to know what had hurt her so badly and why she insisted on carrying the burden herself, but of course he didn't ask her anything at all. He could only nod, though his knuckles were white as he lifted the camera once more. "Smile," he told her again, and this time he meant it.

It ended too quickly. Malachite found himself taking more shots than he'd ever need just to keep her with him a little longer, and by the time he finally gave up and handed his camera to his assistant, he knew that he was lost. He was already more than half in love with her, and while that normally would have terrified him, he was only thinking that he still didn't know what to say to her, how to react. He knew so little about her, and even if he'd known what to say, the words wouldn't have come.

Mina had slipped away soon after he'd finished photographing her, but as night fell and he was finally able to return home, Malachite was only mildly surprised to find her waiting for him at the top of those cursed stairs. She'd changed back into her street clothes and washed the cosmetics from her skin, but he couldn't help thinking that she was even more beautiful this way.

Her smile wasn't the slightest bit shy as he approached her, though it was a little hesitant, and he found his lips twitching in response. "You're still here," he murmured as he came to stand before her.

At any other time, he would have cursed himself for stating the obvious, for making himself sound like the love-sick schoolboy he'd never been for anyone else, but as her smile widened with genuine pleasure, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Yes," she said, and while she didn't try to justify her presence as any other girl would have, he was simply grateful she was there.

He still didn't know what to say to her, but as she continued smiling up at him, the words came in spite of himself. "May I walk you home?"

Her smile was all the answer he needed.

Malachite was silent as he escorted Mina home, but his heart was beating too quickly, and he was far too aware of her slender, tiny form beside him. He risked a single glance down at her face as they walked, but her expression was too calm, and he didn't know what she was thinking. She seemed content enough, but how could one really tell with Mina? Perhaps this was simply another of her masks.

He forced himself to speak anyway, and while he wanted answers too badly for his words to be only polite conversation, he wondered if she would think them intrusive. "How long have you been a model?"

If she was startled by the abruptness of the question, she didn't show it. "Six years, I think," she answered easily enough. "I started when I was twelve or so."

It was more information than he'd expected, but as he did the math in his head, he couldn't decide if he was more alarmed or relieved. _Still too young, but at least she's legal. _

_I think._

…_there's something seriously wrong with me._

He cursed himself for wanting a girl this young no matter how mature she seemed, and then cursed himself again for not being strong enough to walk away. And then, his own condemnations still ringing in his mind, he asked another question.

One question led to another, and then another, and soon the questions turned into genuine conversation. Malachite would realize, later, that Mina never really told him anything more of herself, that she'd managed to deflect their topics away from her personal life with unnerving skill, but for now he was simply pleased by how easily the words began to flow between them. For all her secrecy, Mina was also intelligent and surprisingly witty, and soon he could only think of how much he enjoyed speaking with her and how little he wanted to leave her.

The minutes passed far too quickly, and long before Malachite was ready for it, their time together ended. "We're here," Mina suddenly told him, jerking her head once to indicate the average-looking apartment building before them.

Malachite somehow managed to keep the regret from showing through in his expression, but he couldn't help frowning yet again. "I see."

He knew he wouldn't be able to say goodbye to her, chose instead to simply bow a silent farewell and hope she couldn't see his regret as he walked away.

Malachite and Mina met again a few days later, once again by accident though of course he'd been hoping for it. He'd been thinking so intently of what he would say to her that he hadn't realized she was right in front of him until she called his name, and by then it was too late to curb his automatic reaction to her.

The smile he sent her way was nothing compared to Mina's. She was grinning at him, and while he knew how easily she hid her true thoughts from those around her, he didn't think she was faking the pleasure she felt on seeing him. It made him brave, and it didn't even occur to him to feel nervous as he asked her to join him for lunch.

She turned out to be a surprisingly good companion. She wasn't often silent, but her chatter somehow set him at ease, and he didn't feel as though she expected more from him than he was willing to give. He could be quiet with her, comfortable with her, and the fact that she apparently didn't feel the need to hide her intelligence from him only added to the contentment he felt in her presence. He still had too many questions, still wondered about her and occasionally doubted his right to pursue her, but he was no longer frightened by how much he was coming to love her.

The weeks wore on, and soon Malachite stopped being surprised when he ran into Mina on the streets or encountered her as a model at one of his shoots. She seemed to be everywhere, and if he hadn't already loved her too much to be suspicious, he might have thought she'd planned it. As it was, he was only pleased by how often he ran into her, and by how willingly she accepted his presence in her life.

More time passed, and he could admit that he could no longer live without her. He still didn't know how she felt about him, though he hoped he at least counted as a friend. He didn't dare tell her he wanted to be more, even if he thought of little else.

He also thought she probably knew. Days when they didn't meet had become rare, and while Malachite would never be the most expressive of men, Mina was far too intelligent not to understand why he spent so much time with her, why he always sought her company when he more or less avoided everyone else. She had to know.

And even if she didn't, Malachite knew he wouldn't always be able to keep his love for her to himself. The urge to hold Mina was becoming too great, and while her presence in his life had become as vital as breathing and a rejection might genuinely kill him, he also knew it was only a matter of time.

Another month went by, and with it Mina's eighteenth birthday. Malachite, still appalled by the fact that she hadn't been legal after all, didn't quite know how to react when Mina handed him an invitation to the party her friends were throwing for her. "I don't think Raye would want me there," Malachite confessed, though he was still more concerned with the fact that he'd fallen in love with a girl this young than with the hatred most of her friends seemed to feel for him.

The shadow that so briefly crossed Mina's face was becoming disturbingly familiar, but before Malachite's heart could even beat again, her features had twisted back into her characteristically cheerful mask. "It'll be fine," she told him, waiving her hand in airy dismissal. "I know she hasn't exactly been welcoming, but it's really not personal, so don't worry, okay?"

He sighed, disagreeing but already aware that he'd never be able to deny Mina anything. "I'll be there," he promised, "though you still haven't told me why she dislikes me so much."

If the shadow returned, Mina didn't let him see it. "You just remind her of someone she once knew," she told him after a pause that lasted a little too long, though her voice remained perfectly easy. "And you're not him, so that's obviously her problem, not yours. She'll get over it."

Impossible as it was to believe that, Malachite somehow managed to keep his doubts to himself as Mina took his arm and led him up the steps to the Cherry Hill Shrine a few nights later. He nodded politely towards the ring of disapproving friends that met them at the top of the stairs, ignored their anger and his own irritation as he mouthed pleasantries he didn't mean and they clearly didn't want to hear.

Mina couldn't have been blind to the wary hatred in her friends' expressions, but she only tightened her grip on his arm and pulled him deeper into the shrine. She stayed beside him the entire night, stubbornly refusing to release his hand, just as stubbornly including him in conversations that only became stilted in his presence. And through it all, watching as the love of his life damaged her relationship with everyone she knew for his sake, Malachite could only think that it wasn't going to work.

It wasn't a new concern, though it was one he'd avoided thinking about for too long. He loved the girl far too much to want her to lose anything because of him, and even if he was starting to hate her friends in return, he still didn't wish them out of her life. And yet…when Mina inevitably had to choose between them, would he be strong enough to let her go?

The party couldn't have ended quickly enough for Malachite, and not just because Mina's fingers were wrapped so tightly around his that he lost all feeling in his hand, or even because her friends looked so positively murderous that he was almost afraid to turn his back on them. As uncomfortable as he was, he was more concerned with Mina, with the light dimming in her eyes and the color draining from her cheeks even as her expression sharpened. He thought she might be making a choice, and he was both worried for her and afraid of what her decision must be.

If he was silent as he walked her home that night, for once it wasn't because he didn't have the words. He knew exactly what he wanted to say to her, what he wanted to _ask _her, but he…couldn't. Strong as he thought she was, she deserved more than the burden his love must be.

"Would you like to come inside?"

Malachite blinked, startled by the fact that they'd already reached her apartment, startled a thousand times more by the question itself. She'd never invited him in before, and while a few possibilities sprang to mind, he genuinely didn't know what this might mean.

He only nodded, followed her into the building and then into the elevator. Neither said a word as the elevator climbed to the top of the building, and though Mina kept her eyes turned resolutely away, Malachite couldn't seem to tear his from her. She was too pale, too obviously unhappy, and he couldn't shake the thought that this might be the last time he saw her, that tonight he'd be forced to say goodbye.

He wasn't ready for it. As much as he'd tried to convince himself that he needed to let her go, as often as he'd told himself that this was the most he could really give her...he still wasn't willing. Love had made him selfish and weak, it seemed, though of course knowing that didn't change anything.

Mina remained uncharacteristically silent as she led him into her apartment, as she took his coat and allowed him a moment to examine her home. It was every bit as cluttered and messy as he'd expected, but he wouldn't have cared even if his first real glimpse into her private life hadn't come at such a bad time. He was only concerned for her, for the pain he knew she must be in, and, to a lesser degree, the pain he knew _she_ was about to inflict on _him_.

"I'm sorry."

The words hurt even though he'd been expecting them, and he frowned, trying to pretend that he didn't know that she was trying to leave him, wishing he hadn't been the one to put that note of anguish in her voice. "You have nothing to apologize for, Mina," he told her, his words rendered a little too formal by the effort of holding his emotions in check. He wondered if his heart would ever stop bleeding.

She hadn't been quite willing to meet his eyes, but before he'd even finished speaking, she suddenly lifted her head to glare at him. "Of course I do," she retorted, her voice suddenly fierce. "I shouldn't have dragged you to that party, not when I knew they were still being idiots over you. I hadn't thought it would be that bad, but it was cruel of me to make you stick around when they were being so horrible."

It hadn't been, but did that really matter when the cruelty she was about to inflict would be far worse?

"I almost hate them for the way they've treated you," Mina muttered, for once not seeming to have noticed how unresponsive he was being. "I'd thought they could let the past go. Shouldn't it be enough for them that you're not _him_, and that I_ care_ about you? I mean, _honestly_, I know it's too much to hope that they could completely forgive and forget, but, still, I—"

"I love you."

He hadn't meant to say it. Shouldn't have, because, really, what purpose would it serve? Malachite still believed that Mina already knew how he felt about her, and it wasn't as if putting it into words would make her stay.

He'd said it anyway. In spite of everything, he found that he wasn't willing to let it end this way. Maybe telling Mina he loved her wouldn't keep her in his life, but he'd never really thought he was worthy of her anyway, and at least now he'd have one less regret.

Mina was staring at him, jolted out of her tirade by his confession. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, though her eyes were wide and her face had paled all over again. "What…" She briefly trailed off, swallowed and then tried again. "What did you say?"

He might have smiled—he thought this would probably be the only time anyone would ever see the typically unflappable Mina with her mouth hanging open like this—but he was too afraid of her and what she might say to really see the humor in that. "I love you," he told her again in spite of the fear. "I think I've loved you since that day on the plane, which is why I remembered you, and why I could never quite get you out of my head. I love you, and I thought I could let you go, but I can't. I need you too much, Mina, and I don't even care that your friends hate me. I won't give you up this easily."

He'd never babbled before. He'd never thought he had it in him, but he'd lost control the moment he'd met her anyway, so maybe it didn't matter that the words were tumbling out like this now. "I love you," he admitted yet again, still too afraid of how she would react to be relieved that he'd finally told her.

She was still staring at him, and he couldn't read anything at all in her expression. She looked…startled, perhaps, but what did that mean? "You love me?"

He nodded.

Some shadow crossed over her face as she stared up at him—another decision made?—and then she looked away entirely. "You love me," she repeated, her voice now too soft to convey any emotion at all, her eyes steadfastly on her feet.

It wasn't a question this time, but he only nodded again. "Yes." He wished she'd look at him, was also glad she hadn't. Would it be easier for them both if he never saw the rejection in her eyes?

Time seemed to stretch and become heavy, and his heart was lead in his chest as he waited for Mina to respond in some way. He'd been prepared for nearly anything, but as the seconds continued to drag by, he couldn't help staring at her, watching her face for the first sign of rejection or pity. He honestly didn't know which would be worse, though he supposed the pity would be harder to deal with later.

And then Mina looked up, and he could only think that he hadn't expected the sudden smile. He hadn't expected the way his heart would freeze all over again as she beamed at him, and he certainly hadn't expected Mina to step forward, wrap her arms around his waist and bury her face in his shirt.

He also hadn't expected the "It's about damn time" she mumbled into his chest, but again, when had he ever been able to anticipate what Mina would do?

"Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to say that, Mal?"

If his heart hadn't already stopped beating, it would have then, as understanding finally dawned and everything changed.

_I love you_, he thought, but this time he didn't need to say it.

Malachite also didn't need to see her face to know that she was still grinning, but he thought that his own smile might have outshone even hers. It only widened as she pulled away, looking up at him with an expression which, while still not completely open, let him see just how stupid he'd been for doubting her. "I love you," she told him, no hesitance at all in her voice but more than enough affection in her eyes. "I love you even more than I loved you then, and I don't care what they say, either. I'm not about to give you up again."

The words didn't quite make sense, but they were all he'd needed to hear, and if they weren't what he'd been expecting, either, it _really _didn't matter.

Malachite bent his head and kissed her then, not truly caring that the hard part wasn't over, not even remotely concerned over the fact that her friends would probably try to kill him once they knew or even that she still hadn't told him of the burden she'd carried for as long as he'd known her. All that mattered was the woman in his arms, the way she grinned into his kiss and the joy on both their faces.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, his lips moving gently against hers and his arms holding her as close as was physically possible, but when she pulled away a second time, it didn't occur to him that he should stop smiling.

He didn't, not even when Mina's lips suddenly bent into a mild frown. "Wait…what plane?"

Malachite only smiled and kissed her again.


End file.
